


Untitled

by Tinderfaish (OhFigTins)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Gen, more tags will be added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 06:34:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6227734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhFigTins/pseuds/Tinderfaish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another regency au. Expect bamf Irene and byronic hero Sherlock. <br/>Haven't decided on pairings yet. Leave a comment to have a say. <br/>Updates will be sporadic at best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

February

The kitchen air, once filled with smoke and noise, was cold and still. Little light shone through the uncovered window, for it was late and the moon covered by a thick layer of cloud. Rain was inevitable. The silvery light that did shine through was stopped squarely in its tracks by a small, squat hunched figure. From his position at the kitchen table, tea now grown quite cold, John Watson had found himself slipping into an inevitable slumber a few hours before. Now his head rested heavily in his arms. The party being in full swing upstairs and the remaining servants in bed, John had found himself undisturbed for several hours. That was all about to change. 

It was with a crash and a great deal of cursing that a footman entered the space. He was, it was clear to see, more than tipsy, although how he’d found such an amount of alcohol was anyone's guess. He barrelled through the door and stood abruptly, staring at the figure that was only just raising his head blearily. 

“You Moran’s man?” Asked the footman, running a critical eye of John’s rumpled uniform.

“Yes” rasped he “is it over?” The clock could be heard quite clearly but could not be seen and had not chimed in a good while. It could be any hours, reasoned John. The gentry seemed to have no idea of respectable time, despite outward appearances. 

His question seemed to amuse the footman, who gave a harsh sort of laugh to himself before answering.

“Oh yes. The party’s finished too. How long have you been waiting here?”

“Since dinner” replied John truthfully, “but I don’t know what time it is now.” In all honesty, he had nowhere else to go. His bed did not seem so comforting when he knew that hours later he’d have to rise to tend to Moran. 

The footman did not answer for a while and instead busied himself finding and unlocking the pantry. John shook himself further awake and ran a hand through his hair. He looked around the kitchen. 

“What on earth are you doing?” He asked of the footman, whose shadow could be seen rummaging through the now open pantry. The footman appeared, bottle of wine in hand.

“Celebrating” he said and brought it to his mouth. John eyed the bottle- it was the sort that Miss Hallam used for the gravy. He shook his head when it was thrust towards him.

“I shouldn’t. And neither should you, truth be told.”

“She won’t notice. And if she does, she won’t mind.” The footman drew out a chair and sat opposite him. John shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. He was about to excuse himself when-

“Your sister’s an alcoholic.”

John blinked, all thought of leaving perfunctorily wiped from his head. 

“How do you know that?” The footman crowed with delight.

“So I was right! You and Moran were friends in the army, weren’t you? He’s offered you a job out of sympathy- your situation must have been dire if you lowered yourself to this level. Must’ve been your sister. Gambling as well as drinking I gather?”

“Now look here” said John rising from his chair “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to or what sort of sick-”

“Quite frankly,  _ John _ , you’ve dodged a bullet here. You have played a considerable role in a considerable scandal and only your unbelievable density will save you from the inevitable storm of shit that is about to land on your master’s balding head.” 

John blinked again. 

“What are you talking about? Look, who even are you because quite frankly-”

“Moran wants you” interrupted the footman “Something about tomorrow. I was meant to tell you earlier”

_ Oh for fucks-  _ John grabbed his jacket and left the kitchen. He shook his head as he went, marvelling at the perfect mix of rudeness and intoxication of the footman. Maybe he should say something to the Butler. But, John reasoned as he climbed the stairs to the gallery, he didn’t even know the man’s name. 

 

Lord Moran was unlikeable fellow, in that he tried so hard to make himself likeable. His story, as far as John could ascertain, was a strange one involving not one but two estranged relatives leaving him money and, in the second instance, a prospering business. As such he had risen quickly through the ranks of British society and emerged, like a grey flower in the fresh air of the gentry. Joh  hadn’t been with him for much of that journey but, as the footman had said, met Moran in an outpost. Fate had brought them together, then forced them apart again. It was only a year later when John and Moran met in London again. By that time John’s prospects were dim and Moran’s were flourishing. Employment seemed like the natural step, although it still stung John to think of it. He struggled with service, having always had too many opinions and not enough self control.  This party was the start of a new, more successful era. 

The gallery and hall below were still lit and muffled music emitted from the drawing room door. Evidently the party was not yet finished for some guests. Lord Moran’s door was slightly ajar but the space beyond was dark. Forgoing his habit of knocking, John stepped inside.

“Sir?” He asked, looking around the darkened room. The bed was empty but with a sharp eye, John noticed a foot sticking out from the other side of the bed. It was twitching slowly. 

Lord Moran was a rather pathetic sight. He’d drunk too much, a theme in this house John mused, and seemed inconsolable. 

“Watson” he moaned, his face in his hands, “I’m a fool and a damned one too”. John hovered by his side. Moran seemed not to mind or even notice. He was preoccupied with packing at a feverish rate, muttering to himself while he did so.

“...did they know....inconceivable....bloody inconvenience....” He turned to face John. “I’m afraid things are going to get a good deal harder from now on.”

 

April

  _Dear Harriet,_

_ I hope you are well. It feels somewhat redundant apologising for the delay in this letter, when I fear this may become a habit.  _

_ I cannot lie to you Harriet, things are not going well. I should think I will be out of a job within the next three weeks due Lord Moran’s depression. One cannot blame him for he’s a man who went from reasonable wealth to great wealth and now to poverty (if not this month then certainly by the next). I am saddened to say that my prospects are irrevocably linked to his, as is usual between an employer and an employee. I have lost a friend and am due to lose a livelihood, if the current situation is to continue.  _

_ Loyalty prevents me from leaving sooner, sister, as I know this is what you will be arguing. For me to leave before he bids would be an act of betrayal- of that I am convinced. I have ideas where to find work, perhaps some small village clinic, but I have sworn to myself that I will never again spend time in service. It is a frustrating and demeaning job, one that I would not wish on anybody, _

_ Please sister, keep yourself well. I send love in the place of money and bid you to write to me regularly instead of worrying. My greetings to Clara also. _

_ John _


End file.
